Definitions of Indefinable Things Page 6

  “Sweet kiss to my ear?” I continued uncertainly.

  “Time’s passing by, and I’m still standing here. I shout it to the sky, and it echoes back clear.” He paused, waiting for the real singers to catch up. “With me now, belt it.”

  “I don’t think I can love her no more!” we both shouted (see: indulging). His voice wasn’t such an eardrum murderer with my slightly less agonizing voice there to mask it. The trumpet blared its final solo as the song streamed out, the station transitioning to a Taco Bell commercial.

  Snake didn’t let loose of my hips. “We really should watch a sneak peek of my movie together soon. It’s nowhere near finished, but I could use some input.”

  “My mom probably doesn’t want me hanging out at your house.”

  “Why?”

  “If her snide comments weren’t clear to you, she thinks your family is an abomination.”

  He beamed, most likely at the insinuation that he was a topic of conversation in my house. Positive or negative, it was the ultimate compliment. “On behalf of my family, we’re flattered.”

  I wrapped both hands around his wrists. “I sang.”

  He let me go, lightly touching the skin where my shirt had ridden up because he thought that move was slick. It wasn’t.

  “Cut,” he said. I eyed him to explain. “If I were directing our lives, I would cut this scene right here. Tension. Angst. Buildup. It doesn’t get much better.”

  “Some girl,” I said quietly. He tilted his head. “When you were telling Carla who you worked with, you said just some girl.”

  He stared at his muddy shoes and felt guilt. That was exactly what he felt. It was probably written on his forehead; it was just invisible behind his hair. The audience in my head cheered in victory.

  “Cut,” I said.

  A knock on the door interrupted us. I looked to the doorway, and Snake mirrored my movements.

  And there she was, karma manifested in the prissy and ever-pregnant form of Carla, both hands folded over her bulging stomach. Snake took a step back, thanking his unlucky stars that she hadn’t caught him touching me. Her ruby red hair whirled down her back, her golden eyes like shimmering treasure. She was feminine beauty incarnate (see: mega exaggeration) (also see: worst kinds of people). She blinked shyly as she absorbed the scene.

  “Hey, Reggie,” she said.

  I half nodded in response.

  “Hey, babe,” Snake whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  Babe?

  Babe?

  BABE!

  Was he effing serious? I wasn’t sure whether to punch him in the stomach, groin, or face. Too many attack options. The way he talked to her was infuriating. It was like she was a fragile shard of very broken and expensive china, and he was some kind of master craftsman. He sickened me.

  “Can I talk to you?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Alone?”

  Translation: I’m about to either A) drop-kick you to Waikiki and don’t want any witnesses. Or B) burst into tears about something entirely absurd and don’t want any witnesses.

  Snake glanced at me. By the way he shrugged his shoulders, you would have thought that we had a secret code of body language, and shoulder shrugging fell under “I’m totally whipped.” He followed Carla out the trailer door and into the parking lot.

  Babe.

  Ugh. I dwelled on that sweet and disgusting expression as I worked through the closing-time checklist. As I swept the floor, I could feel a familiar viciousness budding inside like a weed emerging from the pit of me.

  Anger. The trigger emotion. The bully. The menace. With anger came panic. It victimized my thoughts and scraped them through a giant shredder of unrelenting emotion that was a lot like getting multiple tetanus shots at once. Sting. Ache. All the throbbing imaginable. My mind was hazy again. Every thought was louder than the last.

  Thought 1: I lived in a deadbeat town I would never escape.

  Thought 2: I was surrounded by ordinary and boring people who were stupid enough to enjoy their ordinary and boring lives.

  Thought 3: There would always be something standing in the way of me becoming one of those stupid and ordinary people (see: happiness).

  Thought 4: I was too intelligent and self-respecting and, frankly, good for a wannabe liar like Snake, who was willing to cheat on his pregnant girlfriend just so he could hate and be hated at his whimsy.

  Thought 5: I wanted to be the one Snake Eliot called babe.

  Thought 6: Thought 5 made me exceptionally pathetic.

  The shredder went a little something like that. And coincidentally, so did Stage 1. I realized I was kind of beating the floor with the broom at that point. I knew I had to get home before I cried in front of Carla Banks, or before Snake could see me cry and realize I wasn’t exactly made of steel. Floors dusted, sinks washed, countertops disinfected, and machines down, I strutted toward my car to face the music.

  They were huddled next to Snake’s chick-magnet lady-killer (see: Prius). He held her body as close as her belly would allow, rubbing her lower back with his hands like those sappy boyfriends from vomit-inducing romance movies. She was crying against his chest, her mascara tears staining his Oinky’s shirt.

  Aw, he wiped a tear. Wasn’t he the sweetest thing? Wasn’t she lucky to have him? Watching him hold her like that, no one would ever know he was the kind of guy that hooked up with a girl five minutes after he met her or kissed another girl while five-minute girl was toting his baby squash under her dress. He glanced in my direction, and I shot him a very crude hand gesture that I don’t feel the need to elaborate on, given the circumstance. (Side note: I also called him six different curse words in my head, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it should have been.)

  When I side-jumped into the minivan and turned the key, my mother’s spiritual guide station shot on, blaring high-pitched, delicate harmonies that made me so irration­ally furious I wanted to break the system. I opted for a less dramatic response and flipped to a head-banging rock station that was so anger-cliché it was just cliché enough to work for me.

  As I drove by high school’s sorriest example of soon-to-be parents, I rolled down my window and called, “Hey, you want to know what I would do if I were directing the movie?” Snake glared at me like he was afraid I would say something that would get Carla’s designer panties in a bunch. She peeked up from his chest, batting her wet lashes. “I would switch the male lead. That guy is a dick. The odds of him getting the girl are slim to none.”

  I glanced at Carla, a sour smile sketched on my lips, a display of scorn that only depression and Snake Eliot could yank out of me. “And you. I get it. Pregnancy sucks. But look at it this way, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve had a boy under your dress.”

  I sped away before I could bask in what I was sure was her appalled reaction, depicted with gunky black tears and a pouty-lipped plea to Snake for reinforcement. The minivan bumped along Sun Street, hitting every pothole in its path. The stoplight was red, but I floored it through the intersection anyway without glancing back.

  All these theories exist concerning why depressed people do the shit they do. Stuff like, Depression hijacks the logic center of the brain, thus resulting in intensified levels of emotion that can lead to disastrous outcomes and blah blah blah. They’re usually coupled with these genius “philosophies” about depressed people’s carelessness being biologically instilled and likewise untreatable. Ludicrous theories, if you ask me. Psychological white noise.

  I didn’t speed through the red light because I was biologically instilled to be careless. I sped through the red light because there was no one there to tell me not to. Unfortunately for science, my untreatable carelessness didn’t kill me. It wasn’t until I made it home that I realized Snake’s shirt wasn’t the only one with tearstains.

  Chapter Eight

  ONCE A MONTH, I GOT THURSDAY off work. And on that rare and glorious day, pork chops sizzling in the frying pan was proof of that fact. K
aren called it Chop Thursday. I called it Just Put a Bullet Through My Head and Be Done with It.

  I reclined on the bench behind the kitchen table, relaxing on my one of my mother’s infamous puke green sweaters that still had the knitting needle poking through the fabric. I stared at the needle. And heard sizzles. And stared.

  Clearly, I was having issues. If it wasn’t Snake leaving ten voicemails on my phone begging me to call him back so he could do one more thing to make me want to drown him in the rich kid pond, it was my therapist encouraging me to “face life head-on” and “live with abandon.” Were therapists even supposed to use the word abandon? I was almost positive that was rule number 1 in what not to tell your depressed and emotionally unstable juvenile client. Monday’s session had gone something to the effect of:

  “Did you complete the homework I assigned?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to write. I don’t want to do anything.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “I hate everything.”

  “Have you considered that maybe you’re projecting?”

  “Yes. I’m projecting hatred onto Snake because I hate him.”

  “Maybe it’s not him you hate. Maybe you hate that he is confronting issues within yourself that you’ve been trying to avoid.”

  “I hate that he likes that I hate him. And I hate that I like that he likes that I hate him.”

  “Take the word hate out of the equation. Replace it with something entirely different. What is the word you would use to describe him now?”

  “Bearable.”

  “You used that word last time.”

  “What can I say? He’s so incredibly bearable that it’s impossible not to hate him.”

  “How so?”

  “Because he’s the unattainable kind of bearable.”

  “Unattainable because of this Carla you mentioned earlier?”

  “Unattainable because he needs too much.”

  After that came the usual Dr. Rachelle version of divine enlightenment. She told me to confront issues within myself to have a fulfilling experience, to understand the responsibility that was born out of getting too close to someone like Snake, the reward that could be produced from conquering such a feat, and then the big “live with abandon” portion that was so uncannily out of therapist mold I all but disregarded it. She even encouraged me to write again too, which we both knew wasn’t going to happen.

  I decided that I wasn’t going to be one of those obnoxious teenage girls who wasted eighty dollars a session griping about my Romeo and Juliet meets Rosemary’s Baby drama over a box of tissues and hard candies. Snake wasn’t worth eighty dollars a week. He was barely worth the minimum wage compensation to put up with him every few days.

  Babe.

  Kill me.

  “Reggie, sweetheart, could you chop some tomatoes for the salad?” Karen called over the noisy stove.

  “I wouldn’t trust me with the knives right now, Mom,” I said. “I’m on a revenge binge.”

  “Revenge over what?”

  I sat up and could feel my tangled hair bird-nesting itself on my head. “I want to blacken the eyes of whoever came up with the concept of dating. Like, you meet a guy who is slightly more bearable than the other available idiots, and you say to yourself, ‘Hey, this one’s not so bad. He’s goofy-looking and thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but I can get past it.’ Then he turns out to be the worst of the idiots, and you’re all alone again until another available idiot shows his face and swings the whole process back into motion.” I sighed loudly, because I wanted her to hear me for once. Hear me for real, not in her dismissive Karen way.

  She glanced at me over her shoulder before turning back to the plate of undercooked meat. “Don’t tell me this is about that boy with the scary name.”

  “Oh, of course not. The core of the earth would incinerate us entirely if one of my chosen available idiots was a guy who used the word vagina more than once to describe his parents’ relationship.”

  “Don’t start with me tonight,” she warned, sprinkling spices on the pork chops. “Start chopping the tomatoes. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I chopped, vertical slices first, then cutting through horizontally for perfect squares.

  “Don’t forget your brother is coming to town in two weeks. He’s bringing baby Killian.”

  Wonderful. Frankie the chosen one and his Stepford wife would be coming down from New York to grace us with their presence. I didn’t know what I was more looking forward to, Frankie’s baritone solo in our annual car-ride sing-alongs (see: side thorn) or my mother anointing my nephew, Killian, while the theme song to The Lion King played.

  “When does the parade commence?”

  “Don’t go showing yourself now. Frankie loves you.”

  “Frankie loves everyone. Frankie thinks he’s the messiah.”

  “Stop it,” she said, setting the table with only two plates.

  “What about Dad?”

  “He’s at a doctor’s appointment,” she replied, twisting the knobs on the stovetop.

  I took a seat at the table, eating a chunk of tomato from the salad bowl. She rubbed her eyes beneath her glasses as she sat down.

  “Have you gotten to use your journal yet?” she asked, taking a bite of salad.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to let you and Dr. Rachelle force a hobby on me.”

  “You’ve written some great stuff in your creative writing class.”

  “When have you ever read anything I’ve written?”

  She glanced up from her plate briefly, watching me with a hint of longing. “Well, if you would share your work with me . . .”

  I wanted to bang my head on the table. Instead, I decided to humor her. “Fine. Last week, I wrote a story with a dog in it.”

  “Oh, a dog. That’s nice.”

  “It froze to death.”

  “Reggie.” The flame of hope went out in her eyes. “You’re such a sadistic girl.”

  “Don’t worry, the owner lived,” I assured her. She lifted a brow skeptically. “But then he contracted syphilis.”

  She sighed. “We can be done sharing now.”

  I watched her take a sloppy bite of her salad, her mouth dripping with ranch dressing. She motioned toward my peas, and I knew I had to take a bite before she got on my case. They were about as disgusting as I’d anticipated. Karen’s cooking hadn’t improved with her stay-at-home schedule. Most of her time was spent knitting, annoying me, and pretending she didn’t miss her job at the daycare. She’d worked there since I was in diapers, and when she’d ended her stint sixth months prior, her Jesus-fused joy was more for appearance’s sake than the genuine kind. Even Dad knew she missed it. One day he suggested she go back, and all she did was shrug him off, mumble something about paying her dues, and continue her knitting. Dad might have known why she quit, but he never told me. I was beginning to think that she didn’t have a reason.

  “That’s a hideous sweater,” I said, motioning to the work in progress on the bench.

  She frowned and smiled at the same time. “That’s for little Joshua. He’s graduating kindergarten this year.”

  “Does he go to the daycare?”

  She nodded. “His parents don’t have much. When he was a baby, his mom would bring him in the same ratty jacket every day, even in the freezing temperatures. Louise said his wardrobe hasn’t changed a whole lot since I’ve been gone.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, you could at least do the kid a solid and knit Spider-Man onto it or something. And, really, is that a turtleneck?”

  “He’s a little boy, Regina. He doesn’t care what he looks like.”

  There was a length of time when all she did was look at the sweater, forcing joy into her face like it was medicine she was pumping through a tube. She missed Joshua, and I’d have bet she missed all of them. I couldn’t imagine why. Personall
y, I hated children. The farther away from children I could get, the better. But Karen never saw it that way. She’d always been obsessed with kids (see: covered-in-snot mini-humans).

  “Why did you quit your job?” I asked.

  She opened her eyes bigger, then bowed her head and took a bite of her gross peas. “I got tired of working.”

  “But you loved working.”

  “At the time.”

  “Why? What changed?”

  She took her glasses off and pinched her nose. “I’m getting older, sweetheart. Okay? I didn’t have the strength anymore. Let’s leave it at that.” She put her glasses back on and gestured to my plate. “Eat your food.”

  I would have pressed her the way she always pressed me, but when I did that, I usually ended up grounded, and her answer might not have been interesting enough to be worth it. We ate in silence for the remainder of the meal.

  Silence. Now, that was a perk of living. Granted, it never lasted. Just as we were settling into the quiet we both urgently needed, my phone vibrated loudly on the table. I grabbed it and read the text that was spread across the screen.

  COME OVER TONIGHT. PLEASE. I’LL RESPECT YOUR DEPRESSION AND LET YOU SULK IN MISERY UNTIL YOU GROW OLD IN UNHAPPINESS AND DIE ALONE IF YOU WILL JUST COME OVER TONIGHT. AND YOU’RE PRETTY. I THINK I’M SUPPOSED TO SAY THAT. COME OVER.

  Another all-caps text from Snake begging for my company. That didn’t reek of desperation or anything. His focus on me was bordering on obsession. Then again, my hatred for him was bordering on maniac. Something had to be done about our mutual insanities.

  “Who’s that?” Karen asked, standing to her feet to clear the table.

  I tossed my dishes into the sink. “Just Polka asking about our final paper.” I took a step aside in case a bolt of lightning tried to strike me.

  I didn’t want to see him. I wanted to see him. I didn’t want to think about him. He was all I thought about. He and I were a contradiction in ourselves, so alike we were entirely different. Grounded or not, consumed by hatred or not, I knew I had to face him eventually. Why not tonight? How could seeing his dumb, pretty face one more time make any of this worse? He would probably try to make me hate him because it was just another thing he needed. But hating him was something I needed too.